


Sincerely Yours: A Correspondence

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Loneliness, Multimedia, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A courtship in letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All images used here will come from free/public sources such as Wikimedia or will be created by myself. This will likely be a very meandering story, as I have no particular plot in mind. It's a bit of an experiment in form for me.

 

 

 

 

June 2, 1969

 

Dear Michael,

When I visited you you said that you wouldn’t know what to put in a letter, so I thought I would throw the first volley.

I had an audition today. For a part in a cop show, if you can believe it. Picture me in that uniform and see if it doesn’t make you laugh. But my agent insists they will be all the rage soon.

The sky had no clouds in it at all. Which sounds beautiful, and sometimes it is - but the smog was out, and that changes everything. I swear the air was orange. It made the city look like an uninhabited planet, all these grey and silent buildings reaching towards the sky like they, too, were choking. I wonder sometimes if that’s what we’re going to leave behind. Maybe it was a glimpse of our future. On the drive there I imagined myself flying up, up, up until I hit clean air again.

I’m being depressing. And off topic; rambling away like Anne Shirley.

The audition went okay, I guess. As well as these things ever do. I didn’t forget my lines or freeze up. And I was the tallest one there so maybe they’ll cast me just for that. Ha! But really that means the leading man is likely very short, and they’ll hire someone who can look up into his eyes and swoon appropriately.

I went to the beach, earlier this week, and I was going to send you some pictures for your wall. A soothing ocean view, or palm trees against the sunset. Somewhere to put your mind when it gets hard to be away from everything. But then I dropped my camera in the water. I admit to being a little stoned but I think I’ve been punished enough.

Instead, I pressed two of the flowers from my garden and have enclosed them in this letter. The species is Calibrachoa or ‘million bells’. Isn’t that a pretty name? If you don’t want them go ahead and toss them away.

Sincerely yours,

Megan

P.S. Please don’t feel pressured to write back.

 

     

June 9, 1969

 

Hi Megan,

Thank you for your present of the flowers, and also for bringing me that fake cactus when you came by. I put it on my windowsill and everyone is real charmed because we can’t have actual plants in here. The doc’s afraid someone would eat them, apparently. So, clever idea on your part. They’re all arguing over what the name should be; William is currently the frontrunner even though I don’t like it much and I think I ought to be able to name my own cactus. We may end up taking a vote.

I have to say I was surprised to see you. We were never particular friends at work and we didn't run across each other much after you quit. I say so not to insult you, it was just unexpected to me that you would be worried enough to come check on the madman in the attic. I hope he didn’t scare you too badly. And he did appreciate the gesture, very much.

I know what you mean about LA in the smog, even if I haven’t seen it. There were mornings in New York when I would go out and the sun was just coming up and even in the city that never sleeps there was silence everywhere. I felt like the only man alive in a place G-d forgot. I miss those mornings. Cities are alive (not literally) and New York has always been a moody one. It sounds like LA is too.

It’s strange to be out of the city. I know I’m not far away but before I could always feel it around me like a heartbeat. Now it’s wind on leaves at night, crickets in the morning. There is a spider spinning a web in the corner of our room and I think it laid eggs yesterday. I will take them outside if I need to.

I’m trying to adjust and get used to the way life is now.

Who is Anne Shirley?

Sorry for the smudges, we only get dull pencils in here,

Michael

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

June 15, 1969

Dear Michael,

How have you never read Anne of Green Gables? I’m going to find a copy and get it to you immediately. You need more reading material in there anyway; do they give you guys anything to do but watch television? Sitting in front of it all day will rot your brains. And I say that as someone who used to be on it.

Do you get to go outside much? It looked like there were some nice grounds around the building. Stan told me he visits, is that true? It better be. Try to move around as much as you can; confinement isn’t good for anyone. You’ll feel better and more yourself if you get some fresh air. Use Stan’s visits as excuses to go for walks, or ask if they’ll let a nurse escort you when he’s not there.

I’m not saying you have to be George Hamilton, but you don’t want to be that woman from _The Yellow Wallpaper_ either.

Please take the spider nest out of your room right now. Promise me you will or I won’t be able to stop thinking about it. Oh my god, what if it hatched at night and you couldn’t see where the spiders went? What if some of them got into your _ears_?

On a more pleasant topic, I did get a new camera and have enclosed some pictures of the beach. Not of girls in bikinis, though, so don’t get too excited.

I like it best there at sunset. Most of the crowd is gone by then and the breeze comes up off the water, cold enough that I bring a wrap or sweater with me and some food in a cooler. I sit in the sand and eat my dinner by myself, which would be really sad if I didn’t find it so relaxing. I’m finding I don’t have the energy I used to for people. Someone always wants something. Sex, drugs, money. Especially in LA, where the next big thing is always around the corner and everyone you meet is a potential score, a connection, but not a friend.

I expected the vibe in California to be different. Like Woodstock but with movies and less mud. But if there was ever a chance of real free-living then I must have missed it. Which would be typical of me. My timing is not good.

Even San Francisco isn’t what I thought it would be. A friend and I drove down to the Bay area for a party but it was so out of control and ugly that we left. We didn’t feel safe.

I’m probably just getting high too often and have caught a bad case of philosophy. You should hear how my dealer goes on sometimes.

Maybe I should move to the Rockies, be a cowgirl. Try that clean natural lifestyle.

Let me know if there’s anything you would like me to send you,

Sincerely yours,

Megan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June 23, 1969

Hi Megan,

I don’t get out as much as I’d like or is good for me, no. But I’m not convinced it would make a difference. I’m on so much medication I can’t do anything but sleep. There are times when even standing up makes my head spin. And I used to have such energy. Now I’m - foggy, drifting. Is that what being stoned is like?

I’m embarrassed to say so but I had to rewrite this letter. There were spelling errors like I was a third-grader. I wish they would give me my pills at night so I could sleep through the worst of the side effects, but we don’t get to pick. There’s nothing I can do, the doctors all say they’re doing the best they can for me. Morris asks them on the regular. No one wants me getting agitated again. I guess I’m a difficult case.

Stan makes me go for walks. He’d physically drag me out if he had to. When my father comes up we play checkers, usually.

The Yellow Wallpaper - I remember that one. Only I started at her ending and it sure didn’t take bad home decor to drive me round the bend.

You don’t have to send me anything at all, you know. Hearing from you is enough. I put your pictures on the wall by my bed. We’ll see if I’m told to take them down.

How did your audition go? Have you heard back from them yet? Maybe the people in charge like to wait a long time. Like playing hard to get. I bet you were great.

Are you enjoying LA at all? ~~You sound sad~~ You sound like you are having less fun than you were expecting. The agency has an office in California now, Don should insist he be the one to run it. The higher-ups will agree, they do pretty much anything he wants. Then you won’t be all by yourself in a strange city. It wasn’t fair of them to make him stay in New York to begin with.

Or you could move to Montana and buy a ranch. He would look good on a horse.

I’d like to have more to tell you, or the ability to make up an interesting story. But nothing happens in this place and I don’t have the imagination I used to.

So I’ll sign off,

Michael

P.S. I took the spider eggs out like you asked.

P.S.S. ( or P.P.S?) The cactus you gave me is named Horace.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

June 30, 1969

Dear Michael,

Oh, I must sound like such an idiot. Here I am using you as a shoulder to cry on when you’re having a much worse time. I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you were completely annoyed with me right now. Or decided not to write back. I’m supposed to be cheering you up, not the other way around.

Is it possible for you to get a second opinion on your medication? I don’t know how many doctors you have access to at the hospital. It seemed like a pretty big place, but I guess that doesn’t mean anything, or maybe there’s only one psychiatrist…

I’m only bringing it up because those side effects sound really harsh. And I don’t see how you’re supposed to get better if you can’t do anything but sleep. Tell Stan about it the next time he comes up, I bet he’ll have some ideas. I don’t believe you’re a difficult case at all.

~~Don doesn’t want~~

I’m going to be by myself for awhile yet. I need to grow up and get used to it. ~~No one made Don stay~~ Don’s decision to stay in New York didn’t have anything to do with the agency. I mean, he’s got kids out there. I could never make him leave them ~~even if~~ when they’re still young enough to need their Dad.

I still see him. It’s okay. But I doubt we’ll be buying that ranch anytime soon.

Haven’t heard back about the audition.

This letter is a mess. I’m sending it anyway.

Sincerely yours,

Megan

 

 

 

July 8, 1969

Megan,

I wish I kept a copy of my last letter right now, because I’m having a hell of a time figuring out where I implied you were an idiot. If I did I swear I never meant to. Or that I’m annoyed with you, because I’m not. I mean I know I’m not the friendliest guy in the world, especially under present circumstances, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like getting your letters. I look forward to the mail all week.

I don’t write to you because I expect to be cheered up. If I’m gonna be honest I’m not sure anyone _could_ cheer me up. But when you write to me I get to talk to someone outside of this place who doesn’t pity me. Or I don’t think you do, anyway. Am I wrong? And I don’t have to pretend to be okay like I’m doing all the time with my Dad and with Stan. Or act like I’m working towards some goal that’s never gonna happen. Because I don’t want them to worry. I guess it never occurred to me that you might be worried, too.

But the cat’s out of the bag on that one.

I’m not bothered if your letters are messy or pissed off or whatever. They aren’t memos, you can say whatever you want. I’m the only one that sees them.

I think. The envelopes are still sealed when they’re given to me. Privacy or a lack of oversight? I don’t care, I’ll take it.

As for Don and his kids: it’s nice that he’s staying with them, but isn’t the youngest pretty small? Like he’d have to be in New York for another decade or so? That’s a really long time to be away from your wife. Why not just fly in from LA? He has tons of money.

Since I’m not good at being polite or appropriate I’ll be blunt instead: are you okay? Because you don’t sound like you are.

Not wishing you were here,

Michael

 

 


End file.
